Born to Die

The guy at the shop –

The one who looks like

An extra from Sons of Anarchy –

All long hair and ratty beard –

Enlarged ear lobes

And perplexing tattoos –

The only legible one reading

“Born to Die” on his forearm –

Asks as he rings up my helmet

So – do you – uh – ride – or drive?

I think it’s a trick question –

I’d been led to believe

By people who look like him

Only a kook says he drives a motorcycle –

And in the long moment

I pause to consider how to respond

He clarifies sheepishly –

Well – I mean –

Are you like – the passenger?

Me?

I straddle my Vulcan

Like rich white ladies ride horses –

Swap their smells of hay

Wool saddle blankets and mink oil

For leather and gasoline –

For the smoke which oozes

from an Impala in the next lane –

A gold-ringed hand dangling

Out the open window –

Camel Light loosely gripped

between an index and middle finger –

I take all of that in

In the steamy hot

Cicada singing south

Before I head out of my city –

Urban smells giving way

To the land of Oz

Where Poppy chomps at the bit

Like Secretariat at Churchill Downs

I call her Poppy

Because she’s the color

Of the California state flower

Where I’m from

And because

We hit 80 together

And it’s better than opium –

Poppy’s my opiate of choice –

All five senses engaged

At warp speed on a 2-lane –

We’re intimate with

A canopy of Virginia oaks –

Green tangled kudzu –

Breathing the unnamed scents

Along with the wisteria and lavender –

The wet earthy river stones –

Hear the rumble beneath –

Feel the roar of the odd semi –

The way its aftermath

of heat and speed buffets around –

Sucks us in and rattles our bones

 

This is what life tastes like

But I don’t say that to the guy

Who was born to die –

I tell him – I ride –

But I’m no passenger –